


Oprichniki

by RaccoonBlues



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Early Modern Era, Illya and Napoleon are traders, M/M, Minor Character Death, Oprichnina, Original Character Death(s), Starvation, Suicidal Thoughts, dark times in Russian history
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-20 12:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4787468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaccoonBlues/pseuds/RaccoonBlues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Going to Moscow was supposed to be an opportunity, a chance for Napoleon to put his family back at the top.  At first it had been better than expected.  Napoleon had found a happiness he had never felt in Venice, but it did not last.</p><p>Evil roamed the streets of Moscow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I got a comment on one of my previous fics suggesting I write historical fiction. So I've decided to do just that. I'm messing with the timeline a little to, I hope, make the story more interesting.
> 
> Also, we're going to pretend that the Venetians had absolutely no problems with homosexuality.

The snow was finally melting and it would soon be spring in Moscow.  The winter had been far more harsh and unforgiving than Napoleon had expected.  He had been told that the winters would be trying and Napoleon had done his best to prepare himself based on the tales he had heard, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of a Russian winter.  It seems the few travelers that ventured deep into Russia were more concerned with making statements about the people than the climate.  The people were often described as crude, uncultured, and above all liars.  Napoleon had prepared himself to deal with these supposed Russian traits.  He had been prepared to fend off swindlers and use his charms to amaze the superstitious people of Moscow.  However, none of this would matter if he didn’t survive the winter.

He had been woefully unprepared and thanked his lucky stars the Kuryakin family had taken him in.   

The Kuryakin’s were fur traders, Napoleon had made their acquaintance through their son, a beautiful fair haired young man named Illya.  Napoleon had first encountered Illya in the city market.  Napoleon had been struggling to get on his feet once he had made it to Moscow.  Very few of the cities people would do business with him, they seemed uncomfortable with him because of his foreign roots, another problem he had not been prepared handle.  He had feared that his only options were to starve to death when his saving finally ran out, or return to Venice early with whatever money he had left.  That changed when Napoleon met Illya.  The man seemed fascinated with Napoleon rather than repulsed.  Napoleon had to say he was just as fascinated and thanked the heavens for the opportunity to make Illya’s acquaintance.    

Napoleon had come to Moscow with the hope of creating new business ties for his family.  His father had dreamed that Napoleon would gain access to eastern trade routes.  Business in Venice had been floundering since the Turkish takeover of the eastern Mediterranean, their strangle hold on all of the major over land routes to the east had added to the strain the Solo family business now suffered through.  So far Napoleon had managed to only create a business agreement with Illya and his family.  That was fine by Napoleon.  He had no desire to travel east from Moscow, not if the horrid tales Illya told of Tatar raids held any truth to them.  Illya seemed to enjoy unnerving Napoleon with tales of Tatars sacking cities and caravans and taking hostages that would be sold as slaves.  According to Illya these raids were so frequent he was astonished that Napoleon had managed to make it to Moscow un-accosted.  These tales made Napoleon nervous about his eventual return to Venice.

Whenever Napoleon would voice his concerns Illya would tell him he had nothing to fear.  No raiders travelled this far north.  Their tactics and horses were far better suited to the flat lands of the Steppe.  Napoleon would be safe in the city, especially if he stayed close to Illya.  The Russian man swore he would keep Napoleon safe until he had to return to Venice.  He would take care of Napoleon and he would start by preparing Napoleon for the harsh Russian winter.

Napoleon had met Illya as the summer faded into fall.  Their relationship grew as the temperature continued to drop.  As the air grew cold and bitter it became obvious that Napoleon was not prepared for the coming winter months.  Illya had invited Napoleon to stay with him and his family.  The Kuryakin family home was far better suited for surviving the winter than the space Napoleon had been renting.  It had however been the only place with an owner willing to do business with him.  Illya was more than willing to work with Napoleon and provide him with far better accommodations.  Illya had even provided Napoleon with clothing far warmer than anything he had managed to get in Venice.  Napoleon would be forever grateful, without Illya he might not have survived the winter.  He would have been found frozen and alone by the inn keeper as he cleaned out the room for the next tenant. 

He was even more grateful that spring had finally come to Moscow.  The snow was melting and the sun was shining, Napoleon could not remember the last time he had felt so glad to be able to stand outside and enjoy the feel of the sun on his face.

It was so beautiful and warm, Napoleon had spent days basking in its glory.  He was doing just that when Illya returned home.  He had spent the winter helping tend to the family business.  Winter it turns out was the best time to travel in Russia.  The snow would allow sleds to easily glide over what in the summer was arduous terrain.  The speed and ease of travel was greatly improved.  Winter was the time of year Illya and his family did most of their business.  Once he’d gotten Napoleon comfortable in his family home Illya and his father had gone off to earn their living.  Illya’s mother had stayed behind as usual, but Napoleon had still found himself suffering from boredom and loneliness.  Mrs. Kuryakin was a wonderful woman, but she was not her son and Napoleon had found himself missing Illya terribly.  Illya had managed to send home a few letters some for his mother and some meant for Napoleon’s eyes alone.  Napoleon treasured these letters despite their small numbers.

Now that the sun was shining and the snow was beginning to melt, Napoleon was met with a welcome surprise.  As he walked the grounds of the Kuryakin home taking in the glorious sunshine he was surprised by arms encircling his waist and a warm body pressing against his back.  Napoleon struggled to free himself until a voice whispered in his ear.

“Relax Napoleon, it is only me.”  Napoleon turned in the arms that held him until he came face to face with his precious Illya.  He couldn’t believe how quickly the Russian had imbedded himself into Napoleon’s heart.  They’d become fast friends in the time prior to Illya’s departure.  As the weeks had gone by Napoleon had grown increasingly frustrated with the time they had spent apart.  Napoleon had felt accomplished when he finally convinced Illya to stay the night in his shabby quarters.  The man seemed immune to all of Napoleon’s charms, though the Russian’s own were painfully effective against him.  It was a relief to finally discover the feeling was mutual.

While their time together had been short, Napoleon had still felt as if a part of him had been whisked away with Illya that winter.

“I missed you,” Napoleon said, raising a hand to stroke Illya’s cheek.  It felt so good to be together again.

“I missed you as well,” Illya said.  He made to kiss Napoleon, but the Venetian pulled away.

“Stop,” he told Illya, even though it pained him.  They could not be so open here.  “What if your father were to find us?”  Illya pulled Napoleon close again.

“My father is still away,” Illya said touching his forehead to Napoleon’s.  “Mother has busied herself elsewhere, there is no one to catch us.”

Napoleon smiled and closed the distance between their lips.  They had had few opportunities for this and Napoleon savored each and every one of them.  He placed his hands on either side of Illya’s face.  Illya’s own hands had found their way to Napoleon’s back, holding him close.  Napoleon’s hands made their way to Illya’s hair, he loved how soft it was and the intimate nature of the action itself.  He loved that he was the one allowed this level of closeness.  Illya ended the kiss and rested his forehead against Napoleon’s once more.  Napoleon kept up his ministrations against Illya’s scalp.  Illya smiled, his eyes closed and hummed in that way that let Napoleon know he was happy with his actions.  Napoleon loved these moments and wished they had more of them before Illya had gone away.  They had time to make up for it now though, with months to go until winter came again.

“I wish we could do this more often,” Napoleon said.  It pained him that they had to hide.  If only he could take Illya away with him.  If they were in Venice they could be more open.  They would not need to fear being discovered.

“I know, but Muscovy is not as welcoming as your beloved Venice,” Illya replied.  Napoleon’s hands travelled to Illya’s chest and took a firm hold of the other man’s shirt front.  They have had this discussion before, but Napoleon was unwilling to give up.

“Come away with me,” Napoleon said.  “When I finish business here and return to Venice, come with me.  We could be happy.”  Illya sighed and began to rub circles into the small of Napoleon’s back.

“More than anything I wish I could be with you,” Illya said, “but I cannot leave my parents.  They have no one to help them.  My father cannot handle the business alone.”  Napoleon had heard this before and wished the answer was different.  He did have time before he left however.  Time enough he might change Illya’s mind.  He hoped that as time passed Illya would be more troubled by the thought of their separation and he would agree to leave with Napoleon. 

Until then he would just have to savor what time they had.  It would be easier to find time with Illya’s father away.  The man was not only strict, but Russian to the core.  There was much he disapproved of and little that could satisfy his Russian sensibilities.  There were times when Napoleon was sure that Nikolai Kuryakin hated his very existence.  If it were not for the fact that Napoleon brought with him the opportunity for increased profits he would have refused the Venetian refuge in his home that winter.  Napoleon was sure he faced a fate far worse than homelessness if Nikolai Kuryakin knew just what his relationship with his son was.  Napoleon hoped to never find out just what that fate would be.  He was glad the man would be away from home for a bit longer.  Illya’s mother was far less imposing and easier to hide from.  She rarely ventured into Illya’s side of the house.  Napoleon looked forward to all of the things he could do with Illya all to himself.

“When does your father plan on returning?” Napoleon asked.

“Five days at the least,” Illya answered.  “I wonder if I should feel guilty about praying for his delay.”

“You have nothing to feel guilty about,” Napoleon told him.  “I wish we had more time as well, but I do not plan to waste what we have.”

Those few days were the best of Napoleon’s life.  He enjoyed every moment he had with Illya.  Napoleon’s favorite day had been the one they had spent lounging for hours in Illya’s bed.  They had spent the time enjoying each other’s company to the fullest.  Napoleon had never felt more alive than when Illya ran his hands across every inch of his skin.  Napoleon was sure that making love to Illya was the closest he would ever get to heaven.  It was a shame that it all had to come to an end, far sooner than Napoleon would have liked.

Illya’s father returned to the Kuryakin estate in five days as expected.  Napoleon was forced to, once again, spend his nights alone in his own room.  It was hard for him to sleep without Illya’s warmth pressed against him and the other man’s arms wrapped protectively around his waist.  They still found time to share each other’s company, but Napoleon missed the intimacy they had shared.  Napoleon often prayed that Illya’s father would be called away on business once more.  However, Napoleon seemed to have used all of his luck on finding Illya, there was nothing left to will away his father.

Napoleon did get his hopes up when a visitor called upon Nikolai Kuryakin with important news.  Napoleon had hoped it was urgent business that would call the man away.  The news had been urgent, but far from business related, or good for that matter.  The messenger had come bearing the news that Tsar Ivan IV had abdicated the throne.  He had abandoned his duties and left the city.  The boyars, the Russian nobles, were in an uproar.  The news had sent Illya into a panic.  He paced the floor of his chambers like a caged animal.  He was frantic and barely spoke, even when Napoleon begged him to.  Napoleon had never seen the man in such a state and it terrified him.  Unable to take it any longer Napoleon sequestered himself in his room.

Napoleon prayed that things would settle down.  He wanted things to go back to the way they had been.  Napoleon had felt relief when Illya had come into his rooms and thrown his arms around him one night.  He felt safe in Illya’s arms and the nervousness he had felt for days began to settle.  He buried his nose in the crook of Illya’s neck, taking a deep breath so that he could inhale as much of Illya’s scent as possible.  One of Illya’s hands made its way to Napoleon’s hair and began to stroke it.  The motion further soothed Napoleon.  Perhaps he had nothing to be anxious about.

“I love you,” Illya whispered to Napoleon, causing warmth spread through Napoleon’s chest.  He shifted to look Illya in the eyes.  He saw the truth in Illya’s eyes and gave the man his biggest smile.

“I love you as well,” Napoleon replied.  He saw tears begin to build in Illya’s eyes.

“I love you more than anything,” Illya said.  “You are the best thing to ever come into my life, but I need you to go home, back to Venice.”

“What?” Napoleon could not believe what he had just heard.  “Why?”

“I would be devastated if anything happened to you,” Illya said, his voice was strained.  “I need you to be safe, it is no longer safe here in Moscow.”

“What do you mean?” Napoleon asked.  He felt his own eyes begin to water as his anxiety returned.  It could not end like this, he could not lose Illya.  There would be nothing left of his heart if he did.

“The Tsar is gone,” Illya said.  “There is a void and it will be filled, but I am afraid the boyars will not do it peacefully.  There will be a struggle, a violent one.  Moscow will no longer be safe.  I cannot have you caught up in this.  You must return home to Venice, as soon as possible.”

Napoleon pulled away from Illya.  He began pacing the floor much like Illya had been doing for the last few days.  He could not leave, not yet.  He was supposed to have more time.  His family had sent him here to do business, find new markets, and revitalize the business.  He would be a disappointment if he went home now.  Even worse he would be leaving Illya behind.  He could hardly handle the separation of a few walls, how was he supposed to manage the distance between Venice and Moscow.  He could not leave Illya, especially if it really was going to be as dangerous as Illya feared.  Napoleon, now several feet from Illya, spun to face his lover.

“How can you expect me to leave?” he demanded.

“It will be dangerous here soon,” Illya answered.

“The more reason I cannot leave you,” Napoleon said approaching Illya again.  He took the man’s hands in his own.  He focused all of his attention on them, afraid he would lose his composure if he looked into Illya’s troubled blue eyes.  “I will not leave you to die alone.”

Illya shifted his hands so that they were wrapped around Napoleon’s.  He brought them to his face, kissing them, and taking a deep breath.  Napoleon could see he was struggling to keep it together.

“I cannot bear the thought of you in danger,” Illya finally let out.

“The thought of you in danger is just as appalling,” Napoleon told him.  “I will not leave without you.”

Illya pulled Napoleon into his arms once again.  Napoleon wrapped his arms around Illya in return.  They stood clinging to each other for what felt like an eternity.  Now more than ever Napoleon wished for things to go back to what they were.  He wished they could go back to that precious time they had had to themselves.  Just the two of them locked away from the world.  Napoleon’s luck must have truly run out for fate to be so cruel to him.  Illya buried his face in Napoleon’s hair.

“I would do anything to keep you safe,” Illya said.

“Then let us leave together,” Napoleon replied.  He felt Illya’s grip tighten around him.

“So be it,” Illya said.  Napoleon pulled away from Illya.  He focused on the other man’s eyes.

“Do you mean it?” Napoleon asked.  He tried to keep his feelings in check.  He refused to get his hopes up.  He was sure his heart would shatter if Illya said he did not mean it.

“Anything for you,” Illya answered.  Napoleon felt so happy.  He kissed Illya, unworried if they would be caught.  Soon it would not matter, he would have Illya all to himself in Venice.

They spent that night together.  They slept in each other’s arms exhausted from their emotional ordeal.  The last few nights had been hard on Napoleon.  He found sleep difficult not only due to his separation from Illya, but from his growing anxiety.  This night sleep came easily.  He had Illya with him and so long as they were together he knew there was nothing to fear.  Together he and Illya could handle anything.

In the morning he and Illya began their preparations to leave.  Napoleon sent letters to his family and the contacts that had helped him to make his way to Moscow.  If Illya’s fears came to life there would be no time for Napoleon to receive responses from any of them but he could at least let them know he was on his way.  It would give them a chance to prepare for his and Illya’s arrival.  Illya focused on getting them safe passage to the border.  Discord in Moscow was not the only danger to them if they left.  Winter was now well over, meaning that Tatar raiders would be out in full force.  Illya feared a confrontation with them as much as the pending disaster here in the city.  Napoleon began to feel fear and anxiety sinking their claws deep within him.  Illya tried to comfort him, but Napoleon could tell that the fear was eating away at him as well.  It seemed there would be no reprieve.

Illya’s mother seemed disappointed that Napoleon was leaving.  She’d grown to like him and found him charming.  She was in denial about the fact that Illya would be leaving with him.  Nikolai Kuryakin had been overjoyed to learn that the Venetian would soon be leaving his home.  He was furious to learn that his son would be leaving as well.  They argued for days.  Napoleon feared they would come to blows.  He felt ashamed.  He was selfish, demanding that Illya leave with him.  He so desperately wanted Illya with him and safe, but he hadn’t intended to create a rift between Illya and his father.  He wondered if he should let Illya stay.  Perhaps it would be better if Napoleon left on his own.

It seemed like none of this would matter when news reached the Kuryakin home that the Tsar had returned.  Napoleon felt relieved.  There was no longer anything to fear.  The unrest Illya had feared would grip the city seemed unlikely now.  After all with the Tsar back on the throne there would be no need to determine new leadership.  The boyars would not mobilize against each other and the city would remain calm.  Illya seemed to relax as well.  The tension between him and his father lessened.  As the days passed Napoleon contemplated sending another round of letters explaining that the crisis had been averted.  Illya’s mother encouraged him to do so.

“It would not do to leave them worried,” she would tell him.  When he broached the subject with Illya the man told him to hold off on the letters.

While Illya did not travel far for business during the warmer months he and his father still did business in the city away from their home.  The relief of the Tsar’s return was not long lived.  Every day when the Kuryakin men returned home they appeared troubled.  Each passing day would leave them more agitated.  Napoleon once again felt dread seeping into his bones.  The feeling only grew worse when Illya’s father approached him one day.

“Would you still take my son with you to Venice?” he asked.

“Of, course,” Napoleon answered.  “But, there is no longer any urgency.  We can wait to leave until you are more prepared for his departure.”

“You will leave within the next fortnight,” Nikolai said.  “I will make the arrangements.”

The man left without any further explanation.  Napoleon was unnerved.  When he next saw Illya he told the man about the interaction.  Illya’s expression darkened.  He took Napoleon’s hands in his own, held them tightly.  Napoleon felt a knot of worry form in the pit of his stomach.

“It is too late to flee,” Illya told him.  “Evil rides in Moscow.”

That night Illya told Napoleon about the Oprichnina, the division of the city to fit Tsar Ivan’s whims.  He also told Napoleon about the oprichniks and their reign of terror through city.  They swept through the city like agents of death.  They forced people out of their houses, taking their homes and any wealth they had.  The oprichniks weren’t just causing upheaval, they were rounding up the people of Moscow and executing them for supposed crimes against the state.  The worst part was that this was all done with the approval of the Tsar.

Napoleon felt sick.  How could this be happening?  How could the Tsar sanction the murder of his own people?  What would happen now?  Napoleon was a foreigner, would he be considered an enemy?  What would the oprichniks do to Illya and his family for harboring him?  Illya held him, apologizing for not getting him to safety when he could.  He had nothing to be sorry for.  There was no way he could have predicted this would happen.

Illya and his father ceased their trips into the city.  Nikolai Kuryakin busied himself with preparations to leave.  He intended to send his son away to safety.  He finally appreciated Napoleon for the safe haven he could provide for Illya once the two of them made it out of Russia.  Illya had returned to pacing the floor like a mad man.  He had little hope in his father’s plans and frequently voiced his guilt about Napoleon’s now dangerous position.  Napoleon tried to convince him that he had no reason to be sorry, no reason to wallow in guilt.  Illya still felt it, regardless of Napoleon’s reassurances.  The only bright side was that Illya took every opportunity to be with Napoleon.  He had every intention of being there for Napoleon, to comfort him and keep him safe.  He often told Napoleon he would be devastated if anything were to happen to him that could have been prevented if he had simply been there to protect him.

It did comfort Napoleon to an extant to have Illya there for him whenever he pleased, but the circumstances made him nervous.  At least he would be together with Illya if anything terrible did happen.  It was a small comfort, but a comfort none the less.  Neither of them cared anymore if Illya’s father caught them.  Napoleon wasn’t even sure Nikolai cared about what his son did with Napoleon anymore.  He seemed more concerned with getting his son to safety.

News from the city was not comforting.  The whole of northern Moscow had been declared part of the Oprichnina and the Kuryakin’s home was well within the borders.  It was only a matter of time before the oprichniks made their presence known.  The stories of the violence were becoming more wild and terrifying.  Everyone in the house was anxious and frightened.  It all came to a head when the oprichniks finally stormed the house.  They forced their way into the house in a whirlwind of black cloth and destruction.  It was like watching demons force their way out from hell.  Illya grabbed Napoleon and rushed him through to the back of the house.  Napoleon wanted to ask questions, but knew there was no time.  He just went where Illya led him and hoped the other man had a plan.  Illya led Napoleon out the back of the house, through the garden, and to the edge of the property.

“Run,” Illya told him while giving him a shove in the direction he wanted Napoleon to go.

“What?” Napoleon let out.  Did Illya expect him to leave without him?

“If you head west you will come across the Ivanov’s property.  They have an old cottage for servants, you can hide there,” Illya told him all this while pushing Napoleon down the path.  He could hear a ruckus coming from behind them.

“Not without you,” Napoleon said trying to pull Illya along with him.

“Someone must distract them,” Illya said.  “I will stay, you must run, I will meet you, I promise.”  The ruckus behind them was getting closer.

“You promise?” Napoleon asked.

“I promise,” Illya answered.  He gave Napoleon a quick kiss.  “Now, go.”  He gave Napoleon one final shove. 

Napoleon ran.  He chanced a look back over his shoulder and was horrified to see a black figure descend upon Illya like death.   


	2. Chapter 2

Napoleon could not believe he had left Illya behind.  No one had ever used the word coward to describe him before, but Napoleon used the word to describe himself now.  Here has was, hiding like a frightened animal in a tiny abandoned shack that had once passed for servants quarters.  Illya had promised to meet Napoleon, but how could he when an angel of death had come for him.  Napoleon hid on the Ivanov property as he’d been instructed.  He waited for Illya, but as the days passed his hope dwindled.  Illya was not coming, no matter how hard Napoleon prayed.  Waiting, trapped, in this shack was driving him mad. 

The shack was located near a well, making water easy to come by, food was scarce.  Napoleon dreamed of the last meal he’d shared with Illya and his family.  After days alone his hunger grew to the point that Napoleon found himself craving that horrid cured pork fat Illya and his family were so fond of.  Salo, Illya had called it, a staple in the Russian diet.  When Napoleon had first been introduced to it he had found it appalling, now he wished he had a steady supply of.

Napoleon peered out of one of the cabin’s small windows.  The first day he had been in hiding he’d seen dozens of black cloaked riders rush past the property.  It had made Napoleon’s fear surge to new heights.  He worried that they would raid the Ivanov property and stumble upon his hiding place.  He had nothing to defend himself with.  Even if he had a weapon he could not see himself overpowering a hoard of riders in his current state, hungry and wracked with guilt and worry. 

He worried about his own safety and especially Illya.  He felt guilty about what he had done.  He had let Illya sacrifice himself for his own safety.  Safety that might soon be stripped away from Napoleon.  It had been a day since had last seen any riders.  He needed to find food.  He would have to risk leaving the shack.  There would be no point in Illya’s sacrifice if Napoleon let himself starve to death, but where would Napoleon go?  The city was surely unsafe and the only other place that was familiar to him was Illya’s family home.  He had no way of knowing what state the home was in now that the oprichniks had come for a visit.

Napoleon had to risk it.  Anything he could find would be useful.  He could not let Illya’s sacrifice be in vain.  He needed to live, at least long enough to find out what happened to Illya.  He needed to know.  He left the shack and made his way towards the Kuryakin home.  He felt fear settle deep within him, but he needed to move on.  He had already played the role of coward, he needed to surrender the part.  He needed to recast himself as the hero of his own story.  Only in this role could he help Illya, if the other man was still alive.  Napoleon shook his head and tried to will away the thought.  Illya could not be dead.  He was strong, a fighter, and the most important thing in Napoleon’s life.  If he was dead Napoleon’s life would have no meaning.  He would find proof that Illya was alive, he had to.  He was not sure what he would do if he found evidence otherwise.

Napoleon felt the return trip to the Kuryakin home was longer than his flight from it.  When he had left he had been fueled by fear.  Now a combination of hunger and fear ate away at his soul.  He both needed and dreaded the return to the Illya’s family home.  It was the place he had been happy with Illya, but now that happiness was gone, wretched away by figures in black.  Napoleon promised himself he would not weep, not until he was sure of Illya’s fate.  He had to be strong, at least for now.

When he finally found himself staring at the back of the Kuryakin home, Napoleon found he could not shake the final image he had of the place.  The image of Illya being taken by an oprichniki.  The image had haunted Napoleon for the last few days.  In his dreams the oprichniki that came for Illya was more than just a man clothed in black, he was death come to steal away Illya and all of the happiness he had brought Napoleon.  It was a nightmare that Napoleon found himself reliving every night since he had fled.

Now, staring at the scene of his nightmares Napoleon felt a small tinge of relief.  Illya’s body was nowhere to be seen.  It gave him hope that Illya had escaped death, but if he had escaped why had he not come to meet Napoleon as he had promised?  A number of horrendous thoughts began to plague Napoleon.  First and foremost in Napoleon’s mind where images of Illya being left alive so that he could be tortured, held captive so that he could be executed publicly for having harbored a foreigner in his home.  Worse yet he had helped that foreigner escape the wrath of the oprichniks.  Surely, if anyone would be seen as a threat to the state it would be Napoleon.  Illya was now paying the price for Napoleon’s supposed sins.

Napoleon, now, more than ever, feared what awaited him in the Kuryakin home.  He slowly retraced the path he had taken in flight days earlier.  He was cautious, he assumed the home now stood abandoned, but it was possible that someone new and vile had taken up residence in the home.  It was also possible that the oprichniks had set a trap in the Kuryakin home, waiting for Napoleon to return.  Despite the risk he had to proceed.  Life had no meaning for him without Illya.  Napoleon had to find out what had happened to him, even if it meant running the risk of capture by the oprichniks.  Capture could possibly reunite him with Illya.

The house was empty, both of life and the valuables that Illya’s parents had once lined the walls with.  What was left was broken and scattered around the house.  Napoleon searched the house for any clues to the fate of Illya and his parents.  When he found what he was looking for he wished he had not returned.  He was now standing in the sitting room, the last place he had seen Illya’s mother alive.  They had been chatting, Napoleon telling her tales of Venice.  They had been interrupted by Illya who immediately rushed Napoleon out of the house.  Now this room was dark, empty, and smelled of death.  There was no body here either, but the rug Mrs. Kuryakin had been so proud of was soaked through with blood.  Napoleon knew it was too much for someone to lose and survive.

Napoleon wept.  He had nothing.  All of that blood assured him that Illya and his parents had not survived.  Illya was gone, stolen away by black riders.  Napoleon was sure he had lost the one person that mattered more to him than anything ever had before.  He was far from the place he had called home for his whole life and alone.  So very alone.  Napoleon stumbled back through the house, desperate to get away.  To flee from the smell of blood and death, but it lingered.  It stayed with him even after he found himself back in the garden.  He began to wretch, but there was nothing in his stomach to come out.

Napoleon sat in the dirt behind the house crying until he couldn’t cry anymore.  He had no idea what to do now.  What little hope he had had was now gone.  There was just so much blood, how could Illya possibly be alive?  Napoleon sat for hours in the dirt, unsure of what to do.  His hunger started to make its presence known again.  Napoleon could not bring himself to search for food.  What was the point?  What was the point of living if Illya was gone?  As darkness began to fall Napoleon forced himself back into the house.  As much as he hated the idea of being in there, it was safer than spending the night outside or making his way back to the Ivanov shack in the dark.

Inside Napoleon rushed past the sitting room, horrified at what it held.  He made his way to Illya’s room.  It was as much as a disaster as the rest of the house, but thankfully there was no blood or any other signs of death in this room.  Napoleon cleared the debris off of the bed and curled up under what remained of the blanket.  He had no tears left to weep or he would have wept again at the memories of Illya this room brought to mind.  That night Napoleon’s sleep was fitful.  He dreamed again of death coming for Illya, but it also took his parents.  Napoleon saw visions of death ripping them apart, then turning to do the same to Napoleon.  He woke screaming.

After his nightmare Napoleon could not find sleep again.  He feared the visions that would plague him when he closed his eyes.  Instead of sleeping he paced the floor, much like Illya had once done.  Napoleon worried circles into the floor until he could no longer stand anymore.  He was tired and starving.  He had to make a decision.  Should he live, or should he lay down and die?

Napoleon sat on the floor and looked around the room.  He thought of what it had looked like while he and Illya had shared it.  He remembered the warmth and joy.  He thought about the nights they had shared, how happy they had been.  It was not fair, what fate had thrown at them.  Napoleon wanted it back.  He wanted back everything he had shared with Illya.  He wanted Illya returned to him.  He wanted to feel safe and warm with Illya at his side.  Perhaps it would be best if Napoleon let nature have its way with him.  If fate could take Illya away from him perhaps death could bring them back together.

He should have stayed with Illya.  If they had stayed together when the oprichniks had come then Napoleon would not be alone now.  He should not have listened when Illya told him to run.

Illya had told him to run and risked everything to make sure he got away.  Now Napoleon was thinking of throwing all of that away.  He bemoaned the cruelty of fate, the unfairness of it all.  It would be just as unfair for him to throw away the chance Illya had given him.  Illya had wanted him to live.  He had to live, even if Illya was no longer amongst the living.  He had wanted Napoleon to live.  Even if Napoleon’s life was cut short as well, he had to try and keep going.  The courage he had found to leave the relative safety of the Ivanov shack was what he needed now.

Napoleon finally found the strength to pick himself up and search for food.  The oprichniks had raided the Kuryakin kitchen.  There was little more than crumbs and broken glass.  The storeroom where the Kuryakin’s kept their supplies for winter had been left untouched.  There had not been much time to replenish the stores before the attack, but what little was left from the last winter was like a feast to Napoleon, who had gone days without food.  As hungry as he was, he had to be careful.  This was all of the food he had access to.  If he worked through it to quickly he would only find himself starving again.  He needed to ration what he had and find a way to get more.

Napoleon spent several days in Illya’s old family home.  It was nothing like it had been before the oprichniks came, but Napoleon still felt safe there.  He slept in Illya’s old bed and dreamt of better days.  He couldn’t stay forever though.  Soon he would run out of food, he needed to find more.  He feared venturing into the city, if he did so he would likely be captured by oprichniks.  It would be safer to scavenge what he could from the nearby homes.  If he was lucky they would be as empty as the Kuryakin home.  If they were abandoned he could use them for shelter as well.  He hoped that if he kept moving he could avoid capture.  It was a strategy that he feared would only last so long.  He was sure that he would have to face the oprichniks eventually, especially if he went into the city.  As much as he feared going into the city Napoleon knew that eventually he would have to.  There were only so many homes on the outskirts and he had no way of knowing if he would find anything of use in them.

The idea of leaving Illya’s home was an upsetting one for Napoleon.  He knew he needed to, but he felt safe, as if he was still connected to Illya despite the man’s absence.  It would hurt to leave this all behind.  He went through what remained of Illya’s belongings, perhaps if he took something with him he could keep that feeling of connection to Illya.  He managed to find Illya’s fur coat, the one Illya had worn when he had left last winter.  It was still too warm for Napoleon to make use of it now, but it would be vital to Napoleon’s survival if he lived to see the winter.  Napoleon held the coat close to himself, he buried his face in it and took a deep breath.  It was faint, but he could just make out Illya’s scent.  The scent would not last long, but the coat could trigger memories of Illya for Napoleon regardless of how long the scent lasted.

Napoleon took the coat, what was left of his food, and set out.   

Life beyond the walls of the Kuryakin home was grim and harsh.  The oprichniks roamed freely throughout the area.  They had taken the stolen land for themselves, displacing the citizens of Moscow.  The homes in which Napoleon had hoped to find food and shelter were over run with black riders.  Napoleon was forced into the city.  The city of Moscow was truly frightening.  Here the oprichniks did as they pleased.  They pranced about with brooms and the severed heads of dogs, claims of sweeping away injustice and nipping at the heels of the enemies of the Tsar.  Napoleon had already had several close calls, barely escaping the notice of these horse bound reapers.  He had taken to sleeping in alleyways and abandoned shops.  Food was as scarce here as it had been around the Kuryakin home.  Napoleon often found himself scavenging for scraps amongst other people’s refuse.  He was not alone.  There were hundreds of displaced Muscovites living on the streets.  They stole food and waited in bread lines at the cities churches.  Napoleon joined them.  He learned quickly that despite their shared suffering he had to be careful of his fellow street urchins.  They were not above stealing from one another to survive.  Napoleon had even seen them kill each other over crusts bread.  Desperate times called for desperate measures.

Napoleon did his best to avoid confrontation.  He was far too weak to challenge anyone and win.  As time passed he began to fear the coming winter.  There was no meat on his bones and he was sure he would freeze to death despite the warmth of Illya’s coat.  He also suffered from an almost terrifying fear that he would be attacked and killed by another starving man for his coat.  Few of his peers could boast ownership of something so nice.  He could not lose the coat, it was the only thing he had left of Illya and his only defense against the decreasing temperature.  Winter was fast approaching.

Napoleon felt a small sense of pride in the fact that he’d managed to survive this long despite the circumstances.  However the approaching winter could be what finally took his life.  Illya was no longer there to provide him with a safe haven from the bitter cold.  He prayed that if death should come for him in the coming months it would be kind enough to reunite him with Illya in the next world.  Napoleon would pull Illya’s coat around himself at night.  He would think about all of the good times they had shared, the precious memories he held onto as tightly as he could.  This could be both a comfort and a torture.  It was emotionally devastating to think of all the good things that had filled his life compared to the hell he lived in now.  Napoleon often cried himself to sleep at night, praying that this was all just some terrible nightmare, only to be devastated at dawn when he was reminded of how real his nightmare actually was.

Death would come for Napoleon before the first snow fall, he was sure of it.

It was early morning and Napoleon had left his most recent hiding place in search of food.  This morning had been like many others, except that it was colder than the last and Napoleon was having little luck in finding food.  He was tired, frustrated, and most of all hungry.  It was increasingly harder for him to focus, he was unaware of his surroundings, unable to focus on anything but the task immediately at hand.  It was too late for him to escape when he finally took notice of the black rider at the end of the road.  The sound of the horses hooves bearing down on him was what finally alerted Napoleon to the presence of the oprichniki.  Napoleon tried to run, but even if he had been healthy there was little chance he could out run the beast and its demonic rider.

As Napoleon ran he saw another rider come from around the corner and block his escape.  His chances against one of these agents of death wear near nothing, there was no way he could escape two.  The first rider slowed to a stop behind Napoleon.  He dismounted and took hold of Napoleon in a bruising grip.

“You will not struggle,” he told Napoleon.  He tightened his grip.  Napoleon felt his arm might break from the pressure.  His hands were tied and he was hauled away to face death at the hands of the oprichniks.

Napoleon spent days in a prison cell.  Water dripped from the ceiling and the cold penetrated deep into his bones.  He had no protection from it.  Illya’s coat, the one link he had left to the man he loved, was taken away from him the day he had been captured.  Napoleon was more devastated by the loss of that coat than his capture.  It had been his one comfort and now it was gone, stolen by the dark shadows of Moscow.

Napoleon grew more depressed as he watched other prisoners be taken away never to be seen again.  It was only a matter of time before he too would be taken away.  He wondered what sort of punishment awaited him, a foreigner turned street urchin.  Would he be executed publicly to set an example to others like him, or would they simply murder him in some secluded courtyard?  Whatever they did to him did not matter, so long as it finally reunited him with Illya.  Until then the oprichniks had the courtesy to feed him regularly.  It was by no means enough to sate his hunger, but it was more than anything he could have gotten for himself on the streets.

Day in, day out, Napoleon watched as his fellow prisoners were taken from their cells and new ones pushed in to replace them.  These old faces were grim as they walked towards their deaths.  Napoleon awaited his turn with unease, until one day they finally came for him.  He did not struggle when they came, he was far too tired.  Some part of him felt relief, it would finally be over.  His suffering would end and he would finally be reunited with Illya.  He stumbled along as the oprichniki took him away from the cells and led him to his meeting with death.

The room he was led to was a surprise.  It was a sitting room, not an execution chamber.  It was furnished like a rich man’s home.  There was a fire burning in the hearth making the room warm, warmth that Napoleon had not felt in ages.  Just being in the room eased the aches in his body.  There was a man standing on the far side of the room.  He was standing at a table facing away from Napoleon, a fur coat in his hands, Illya’s fur coat.

“That belongs to mine,” Napoleon exclaimed trying to rush forward.  The guard who brought him in held him fast to the spot.  The man across the room turned around and Napoleon could not believe his eyes.  He stood fixated on the all too familiar shade of blue of the eyes that stared right back at his own.

“Leave us,” he told the guard.  Napoleon had missed his voice desperately.  The guard left and Napoleon was left alone with Illya.  Illya, the man he had long thought dead.

“I thought you were dead,” Napoleon let out.  He could not believe it.  Illya was here, he was alive.  Napoleon had not lost him.

“I had feared the same of you,” Illya said.  He held out the coat.  “When I saw this I knew.  I knew you were alive and that there was still hope we could be reunited.”

Napoleon ran to him.  He threw his arms around Illya and held on as tightly as he possibly could.  He felt Illya’s arms come around him and hold on with just as much force as Napoleon.  It was as if they both feared the other was a mirage that would vanish at the slightest provocation.  For all Napoleon knew that was exactly what would happen.  Perhaps he had died in that cell and this was his own version of heaven.  Illya felt so warm and real though.  Real or not this was what he wanted more than anything, what he had prayed so hard for as he slept alone on the streets.  He almost lost his composure when Illya began to push him away, but the Russian kept a tight grip on his shoulders.  He looked Napoleon over, obviously concerned with what he saw. 

“You have gotten so thin,” Illya said touching a hand to Napoleon’s cheek.

“I survived,” Napoleon said.  He closed his eyes and leant into Illya’s touch.  “It was difficult, but I had to.  I could not let your sacrifice be in vain.”  Illya pulled him close again.

“I should not have left you alone,” he told Napoleon.  “It will not happen again.”

“Nothing could tear me away from you now that we are together again,” Napoleon said.  For the first time since the oprichniks had come to the Kuryakin home, Napoleon felt safe.  “I thought the only way I would see you again would be to move on to the next life.  How did you survive?”  Napoleon felt Illya’s body tense.

“We will not talk about that here,” Illya said.  “I will take you home first, were you will be safe.”

Ilya finally let go of Napoleon.  Napoleon already missed the warmth of his touch.  Illya bent down and picked up the coat.  He must have dropped it when he had embraced Napoleon.  He shook it out and placed it around Napoleon’s shoulders, pulling it closed over Napoleon’s chest.  Napoleon’s hands shot up to wrap around Illya’s.  Illya smiled at him and leaned forward to press a kiss to Napoleon’s forehead.  Napoleon closed his eyes and smiled.  It felt so good to be back with Illya.  Fate had been kind enough to reunite them, he prayed it would continue to be kind and keep them together.

Illya lead Napoleon out of the room and through the building.  It looked like some sort of manor to Napoleon, but he did not focus on his surroundings.  Instead he focused on Illya’s presence at his side, Illya’s arm around him as he guided Napoleon through a multitude of corridors.  Illya lead him out of the building towards a stable.  He dismissed the stable hands when they made their presence known.  A part of Napoleon was curious about the authority Illya seemed to hold over the people here, but something also told him would not like the answer.  It was best not to think about it until Illya was ready to speak.

Illya left Napoleon for a moment.  He disappeared into a stall and led a horse out.  He had Napoleon hold it steady while he prepared it for a ride.  Venice was a city of canals, not horses.  Napoleon had had few opportunities to acquaint himself with these creatures, this one seemed friendly enough though.  When the preparations were done Illya helped Napoleon mount the animal.  Illya positioned himself behind Napoleon and urged the creature to move.  Napoleon leaned back into Illya as the Russian guided the horse through the streets of Moscow.  Napoleon felt exhausted.  He wondered how long it would take them to reach their destination, perhaps he could rest on the way.

Napoleon did rest, but not well.  The back of a horse was not the most relaxing of places.  The ride had been short, giving even less chance for Napoleon to rest.  Illya took them to one of the finer homes in the city.  It was the kind of place Napoleon had been awed by when he had first come to Moscow.  He wondered how Illya had come to live in such a place.  He leaned against the stable wall as Illya unsaddled the horse and led it to a stall.  Illya then led Napoleon into the house.  The house looked elegant on the outside, the inside however was sparsely furnished.  The walls seemed to have seen better days, covered in scratches and dings.

“I have little patience for the beautification of this house,” Illya said when he caught Napoleon staring at the damage.

Illya led Napoleon to a wash room and busied himself with cleaning Napoleon’s body.  They spoke very little, but that did not bother Napoleon.  He had questions, but they could wait, right now he was tired.  He would relax and enjoy his time with Illya now that they were back together.  Feeling Illya’s hands against his skin was something Napoleon had thought he’d never feel again.  It filled him with joy, even if he was far too tired to push things further.  He began to doze as Illya scrubbed away the months of dirt caked on his skin.  Illya urged him to stay awake just a bit longer.  He could rest as soon as Illya was done.  It would not be long now.  When they were done Illya draped a towel around Napoleon’s shoulders and led him to a bedroom.  He dressed napoleon and put him to bed.  He stayed with Napoleon, running his hands through Napoleon’s hair.  Napoleon felt his eyes grow heavy, sleep edging its way into his mind.  He prayed that when he woke it would not be to find that this had been a dream and that Illya was well and truly lost to him.

Napoleon woke alone.  He was pleased to realize that he was still in the bed Illya had left him in and not back in that cold dark cell.  His reunion with Illya had not been a dream, a fact Napoleon thanked the stars for.  Napoleon relaxed a few minutes more before he left the comfort of the bed in search of Illya.  He wandered the house discovering room after room until he finally stumbled upon the kitchen.  There he found Illya preparing food.  He watched Illya, happy to have the man back in his life.  He watched until the smell of food sent his stomach into an uproar that he could no longer ignore.  He made his way to Illya, laid his hands on Illya’s arm and pressed a kiss to his cheek.  Illya moved what he was cooking away from the heat and wrapped his arms around Napoleon.

“It is good you are awake,” he told Napoleon.  Napoleon hummed in response burying himself in Illya’s warmth.  Illya’s body radiated heat that Napoleon was sure his own had forgotten how to produce.  The fire burning in the stove helped to heat the room and encase Napoleon in a comfortable warmth.  “I have food for you.”

Illya plated some of the food and set a place at the small kitchen table for Napoleon.  Despite the humble nature of the meal, Napoleon was awed.  It was far more glorious a meal than anything he had had in the months since his near escape from death.  He threw himself whole heartedly into eating the meal before him.  He loved Illya all the more for this and was glad that Illya’s life had not been snuffed out.  Now, rested and without the distraction of his nagging hunger, Napoleon was beginning to think more clearly.  He had seen the blood in the Kuryakin home, so much blood that he had been sure Illya had met his end.  Yet, Illya was here, alive and well.  Illya was living in an excellent house, with the authority to remove Napoleon from an oprichnik run prison.

Napoleon looked up from his food to Illya, who had seated himself across from Napoleon.  He stared at Napoleon with an admiration that Napoleon had often prayed he could be shown more.  It warmed Napoleon’s heart, but at the same time he was concerned.  Illya, despite the warmth in his eyes and the grandeur he appeared to live in, looked worn and weary.  He may not have spent the last few months living on the streets as Napoleon had, but his life had not been easy.  Napoleon finished his food and set aside his plate.  He took a deep breath and readied himself as much as he could.

“You must know that I am overjoyed to see you again,” Napoleon said.  Illya smiled and reached his hand across the table to take Napoleon’s.  Napoleon closed his eyes.  “How did you survive?”  Illya’s grip tightened around Napoleon’s hand.

“I became one of them,” he answered.  “I became an oprichniki.”

Napoleon felt sick.  It was a similar feeling to the one he’d had all that time ago in the Kuryakin home, when he had discovered the blood.  His sweet, precious Illya had become one of those dreaded riders who terrorized the city of Moscow.  He had become a member of the death brigade.  The same agents of death who had spilt blood in his family home.  Napoleon felt a wave of nausea wash over him.  Now, unlike the time he discovered the blood in the Kuryakin home, he had a full belly to empty onto the kitchen floor.  He held down his meal as best he could.

“Why?” Napoleon croaked, he felt strangled by his emotions.

“I had no choice,” Illya said.  He released Napoleon’s hand and began to pace the floor.  He would pause every few steps to face Napoleon.  He acted as if he wanted to speak, but the words would not come.  Finally, he found them.

“After I assured your escape I was captured,” he said.  “They took me to the sitting room where they held my parents.  All around us black robed figures rummaged through our belongings.  They ransacked the house.  They accused my father of crimes against the state.  They felt that his travel for work was really a cover for the organizing of forces against the Tsar.  My father denied it.  They beat him and threatened further torture.  My father continued to deny their accusations.  My mother wept.  She did not make it out of that room alive.”

Napoleon felt tears fill his eyes.  Illya’s mother had always been kind to him.  She did not deserve the fate she had been dealt.  As Napoleon wept for the loss of her life Illya continued his tale.

“My father and I were taken to the same prison you were held at.  We shared a cell with four other men.  Each day one would be taken and never returned.  The next morning a new man would replace him and another man would be taken.  One day my father was taken.  I wondered about his fate until they came for me.  They told me he had been executed for his crimes, but I could escape that fate.  They would not hold his sins against me if I allied myself with them.”

“To escape death you joined your parent’s murderers,” Napoleon said.  He felt disgusted. 

“I joined them so that I could find you and save you from a similar fate,” Illya said.  Napoleon felt his breath catch.  “I knew you were alive, I had facilitated your escape.  All I had to do was find you.  If I lived I could find you.  If I joined the oprichniks I could use my position to shield you from their wrath.  When I was released, I searched for you at the Ivanov property.  I knew it was unlikely that I would find you there, it had been weeks since I had sent you to seek refuge there, but I tried.  I tried and I failed to find you.  I began searching for you across the city.  I had lost hope until I saw my old coat in the hands of another oprichniki.  I demanded he tell me where he had found it and I was finally led back to you.”

Napoleon was unsure of what to feel.  Yes, Illya had joined the oprichniks, but he had done it in the hope of being reunited with Napoleon.  His position had allowed Napoleon to escape the fate of so many others.  Could Napoleon really fault Illya for this?  Napoleon could not say he would not have done the same had their positions been reversed.  Napoleon stood and rounded the table so that he stood before Illya.  He took Illya’s hands in his own and held them tightly.

“I love you,” he told Illya.  “I had prayed that we would be reunited.  You did as well, you took desperate measures to assure our reunion.  I still love you and will until I breathe my last breath.”

Illya kissed Napoleon, holding him close, pouring as much of his love as he possibly could into the action.  Napoleon returned the kiss with equal fervor.  It would not be easy, but he prayed that they would finally have a chance at happiness together.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to talk to me about the historical aspects of this fic you can find me at wonderlandflamingo.tumblr.com


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